


The Vicar of Ered Luin

by 1863



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), Vicar of Dibley
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2019-02-01 07:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: “Well, hard work certainly suits you,” she says, looking him up and down.





	The Vicar of Ered Luin

**I.**

Thorin looks up from the table he’s carefully moving into place when he hears someone at the door. The knocking is loud and insistent, and he wonders who among his new neighbours would disturb him at this time of the evening. 

He expects it to be one of the older Dwarves—a former warrior perhaps, one who fought alongside him or his father, come to pay his respects. Or maybe some younger Dwarves, sent by parents or older relatives to welcome him to the Blue Mountains.

He certainly doesn’t expect what he sees when he finally does open the door: a Dwarf-woman, about half his height, the expression on her face caught somewhere between indignation and shock. They stare at each other in surprise for a moment, before Thorin gathers his wits and manages to speak.

“Hello?” he says, then tries not to wince at the way he made it sound like a question. He may not have a kingdom but he is still the son of kings. “Hello,” he repeats, more firmly this time.

The Dwarf-woman blinks at him before a sudden smile spreads across her face, as bright as mithril in the moonlight.

“Hello!” she replies cheerfully. Her eyes seem to sparkle with some secret delight. “I’m Geraldine. I live just down the way.” She waves vaguely to the hall behind her. “I, ah, just wanted to welcome you to this part of the mountain.”

“Oh,” Thorin says, and is dimly mortified by his apparent inability to say anything else. “Would you…” he begins, “would you care to come in?”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” she says immediately, and pushes past him as he holds the door open. Her arm brushes his stomach as she steps in, the touch warm and soft, and Thorin catches a whiff of something sweet and earthy coming from the dark fall of her hair.

He hovers at the edge of the room as she looks around, openly curious. 

“I’ve not had time yet to set things in order,” he says. Long years of training in proper behaviour kick in and he hastily clears some space on the sofa, shoving aside piles of odds and ends that he has yet to unpack properly. “Please, sit.” 

“So,” she says, settling down amongst the cushions. “Lots of weapons, I see.”

Thorin takes a seat opposite her. “Yes, I—I enjoy making them. As much as using them.”

“Oh?” She grins. “And which are your favourite?”

“The classics, I suppose.” 

Thorin gestures to the axes that are lined up against the far wall. They're all battle-scarred, strong and sturdy and well taken care of. He pauses, then picks up a small dagger at his feet. He’d made it decades ago, and has kept it with him over the years for no real reason. It’s small, more ornamental than anything, decorated with tiny gems laid out in intricate geometric patterns. 

“Although I am also rather fond of this one,” he adds. He runs his fingers over the blade. “Not much use in an actual fight, but making something beautiful for beauty’s sake has its place in the world too.” He falls silent, lost in his own thoughts for a moment. “Perhaps it would do as a courting gift,” he muses, and unthinkingly adds, “Has anyone ever given you such a gift?” 

He looks up. Geraldine’s eyes are bright in the glow of the fire in the hearth, a deep shade of brown that makes him think of earth yet to be mined, still full of treasures yet to be discovered. 

“N-no,” she stammers. Her voice has gone quiet and Thorin unconsciously leans forward. “Not really, no.”

“Ah,” he says faintly, staring. “Is that so?” 

She blinks rapidly. Thorin abruptly sits back, shaking his head a little in a futile attempt to clear it. He’s Thorin, son of Thrain, he reminds himself. He shouldn’t be acting like some foolish Dwarfling.

Geraldine stands. Though he’s still seated, Thorin is still almost as tall as she is.

“I should go,” she says quickly. “It was good to meet you…” she trails off, and Thorin watches her cheeks turn pink beneath her beard. “I can’t believe this, but I think I’ve actually forgotten to ask what your name is.”

“Thorin,” he replies. Her eyes widen a little, and he braces himself for a stilted formal greeting.

But all she does is smile.

“Welcome to the mountain, Thorin,” she says warmly.

As he closes the door behind her, Thorin looks back at the dagger on the table. Maybe there was a reason he’d kept it, after all.

 **II.**

Thorin pushes a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as he dips the red-hot metal into a vat of cool water. It hisses loudly, steam rising up in a curling wisp of grey. The sight and sound are both so familiar that even when he’s forced to make sword after sword for ungrateful Men, there’s still something inside him that sparks with satisfaction when he’s in the smithy.

“Hard at work, I see,” someone says behind him, and Thorin’s lips immediately curve into a smile.

“I do hate being idle,” he says, setting the blade aside before he turns.

Geraldine smirks at him. 

“Well, hard work certainly suits you,” she says, looking him up and down.

Thorin shakes his head at her shamelessness. If he’s blushing, he can blame it on the heat of the forge.

“Speaking of work,” he says, “you’ve yet to tell me what it is you do in the mountain.” He leans back against his workbench and gives her a speculative look. “You’re not a smith, or a miner.”

“And how do you know that?”

Thorin hesitates, then carefully takes her hands in his. 

“Your skin is soft,” he murmurs. He takes a breath and corrects himself. “Your hands, I mean. Your hands are soft. Uncalloused.” He runs his fingers over her palms. “So that must mean you don’t work with them.”

“Does that bother you?” 

There’s the slightest note of challenge in her voice. A Dwarf who didn’t work with their hands was still viewed with some suspicion amongst certain members of their people.

“If I thought you didn’t work at all, it would,” Thorin says honestly. “But I know that isn’t true.” He catches her eye. “I know you work very hard. I’ve seen your head bowed, deep in thought. I’ve seen you rushing here and there, always busy with some errand or another. And yet I still can’t quite work out exactly what it is you do.”

“Perhaps I just want to maintain an air of mystery,” she replies, and waggles her eyebrows.

“Oh, Thorin, there you are,” someone says, stepping in from around the corner. Geraldine starts to pull her hands away but he tightens his grip and refuses to let go. 

“Balin,” he acknowledges.

“So what do you think of the local vicar, then?” he asks. Thorin frowns at him, a little puzzled by the abrupt question.

“I’m afraid I’ve not had the chance to get to know her yet.”

“Er, Balin,” Geraldine says loudly. “Didn’t you have to go and do—that thing? Over there, somewhere? Somewhere… all the way over there?” She nods towards one of the exits.

“Hmm?” Balin says blankly, before suddenly straightening. “Oh! Oh yes, that’s right. You’re quite right. Excuse me.”

Thorin stares after him as he hurries out.

“I’ve been hearing quite a lot about this vicar,” he says after a moment. “She seems to be held in very high regard here. Do you know much about her?”

“Oh, you know, a bit,” Geraldine says vaguely. Heavy footsteps sound from behind them and Thorin turns to find Dwalin trudging in.

“Thorin,” he greets without preamble. “Vicar,” he adds, nodding to Geraldine. “Did my brother come through here? He mentioned he might stop by to say hello. Ah, wait, I think I hear his voice.” He heads for one of the exits and doesn’t stop to wait for an answer.

Thorin turns back to Geraldine. She’s biting her lip, peering up at him from beneath her eyelashes with a sheepish expression on her face.

“Vicar?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“…Surprise?”

Thorin isn’t sure who breaks the silence with a chuckle but it isn’t long before they’re both laughing, a little helplessly, leaning into each other and still holding hands the entire time.

 **III.**

“I had a lovely evening, thank you,” Geraldine says, as Thorin escorts her up the hallway to her quarters.

“As did I.”

They arrive at her front door. She pushes it open but stays leaning against the doorframe, watching him with a look that’s somehow equal parts shy and amused. Thorin lingers too, the wine and her smiles and the warmth in her eyes making him feel young, and a little bold.

“I was wondering if you could give me some clarification,” he says, with mock seriousness. “In your capacity as the local vicar.”

“I would be happy to be of service.” 

She schools her face into a professional expression but her eyes are still bright with laughter.

“What would you advise is the correct protocol,” Thorin says slowly, “regarding vicars and princes and courting and… kissing, I wonder?”

“Ah, that’s a very serious question,” Geraldine says, nodding. “I would say…” She trails off and looks thoughtful. “First outing—no kissing.”

Thorin nods. “That seems proper.”

“Second outing… probably still no kissing.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Third outing…” She squints, then nods firmly. “ _Definite_ kissing.” She grins wickedly. “With tongues,” she adds, and tries not to laugh.

“Ah,” Thorin says, unable to stop a grin of his own from taking over his face. “That sounds… very reasonable.”

They stand smiling at each other for a little while longer, then Thorin holds out his hand. When Geraldine takes it, he pulls her hand up to his mouth and catches her gaze before pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

“Goodnight, Vicar,” he says formally, and lets go.

Geraldine smiles.

“Goodnight, Prince Thorin.”

 **IV.**

Thorin paces up and down the hallway outside Geraldine’s front door. They haven’t spoken in several days and Thorin has spent the entire time in deep discussion with his sister Dís. He was upfront, telling her almost immediately of what he was planning, and the two of them talked for hour upon hour, looking at all the possible variables in excruciating detail. 

All of which has led up to this moment, to him standing now at the threshold of Geraldine’s house and trying to will his heart to stop beating so fast.

The door opens sooner than he expects it to. Thorin can do nothing but stare at Geraldine’s face for a moment before he manages to calm down enough to ask if he can come in.

She steps aside without a word. Her silence is uncharacteristic but Thorin is too preoccupied to examine it very closely. His mind is on what he’s laboured all day to put together, crafting endless phrases and speeches with as much diligence as he crafted swords and spears. But standing in front of Geraldine now, seeing her hair gleaming in the candlelight and her skin looking so soft and creamy, he finds he can’t remember a word of his carefully rehearsed proposal.

“Did you want something?” she says eventually.

Thorin takes a deep breath. In the absence of his speech, he decides his only recourse is to fall back on the simple truth.

“I’ve been thinking on this for days,” he says. “Indeed, I’ve thought of little else.” He pauses. _You’re a prince_ , he tells himself firmly. _You’ve faced hundreds of orcs in battle. You can do this._

“Thorin?” Geraldine prompts, and looks a little impatient.

“I have been wondering,” Thorin begins, trying not to rush. “I’ve been _hoping_ …” He pauses again and swallows, then forces himself to finish. “Whether or not you would do me the honour of marrying me.”

Geraldine just looks at him for a moment. Then she sighs loudly.

“Oh all right, I suppose,” she says, and Thorin cannot stop the tiny sound of relief that escapes his throat. “Come on,” she adds, disappearing into another room, “we may as well fill in the requisite paperwork.”

“If you wish it,” Thorin replies, a little bemused but too happy to question her actions.

Geraldine pulls a massive leather-bound tome from one the shelves and flips to a new page.

“All right,” she says, taking up a quill and dipping it into an inkpot. “Name of groom—Thorin, Son of Thrain.” She carefully inscribes his name into the correct column. “And name of partner?” 

When there is no response, Geraldine turns and gives him an expectant look.

“Come now,” she says. “You can’t be marrying someone if you don’t even know their name.” She lifts her quill again and holds it poised above the parchment.

Thorin frowns.

“Well... it’s Geraldine—” he begins slowly.

“Geraldine,” she repeats, adding the name to the book. The scratch of the quill seems strangely loud to Thorin’s ears.

“—Daughter of Granger,” he finishes.

“Daughter of Gra—”

She freezes.

“Daughter of _Granger_?” she demands.

“That is your name, is it not?” 

For an interminable moment, she simply gapes at him, unmoving and silent.

“What about the other one?” she suddenly bursts out, standing up and stalking over to where Thorin stands by the hearth.

“The other one?” he repeats blankly.

“The blonde one! The pretty one!” Her voice increases in volume and pitch with each new exclamation. “The one you’ve been entirely inseparable from these past days, ever since her arrival here!”

Realisation dawns, sudden and sharp.

“You mean my sister?”

“She’s your _sister_?!”

“We are the best of friends,” Thorin says quickly, suddenly quite desperate to make her understand, to erase that look of distress on her face. “We discuss everything. And we spoke at length, for days, about whether I should propose to you now. I worried it was too soon, but our people are so scattered—we’ve suffered so much—” 

Thorin cuts himself off. He moves to sit on the arm of her overstuffed sofa and catches her gaze before he continues.

“In the end, we were in agreement.” He takes a breath. “I decided I should follow my heart.”

Geraldine stares at him.

“Indulge me for a moment,” she says, “and let me see if I understand this correctly.” She clears her throat. “ _You_ ,” she says, pointing at him, “want to marry _me_?” She points to herself.

“Yes,” Thorin says firmly, and in the blink of an eye he has Geraldine is in his arms and joy in his heart.

“Is this an acceptance?” he asks, laughing, in between the sweetest kisses he has ever known.

She steps away and raises an eyebrow. 

“Meet me in the bedroom and I’ll show you acceptance,” she smirks.

Thorin licks his lips.

“Will you wear your ruby nightgown?”

She disappears down the corridor with a sly smile.

“Come and find out.”

**V.**

Geraldine takes the dagger from his hands and turns it slowly, examining it with care. Her fingers run over the handle, expertly wrought in the finest steel and inlaid with precious stones.

“You made this, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

His things are packed and already outside in the valley. Thorin has put this off for as long as possible, allowing Balin and Dwalin to leave ahead of him, but he cannot delay any longer. The signs are clear.

“Geraldine,” he starts, but she interrupts him.

“I know you need to go,” she says. “I know that. You wouldn’t be the Dwarf I married if you didn’t.”

“If I return—”

“If?” she asks sharply, her grip on the dagger tightening. 

“When,” he corrects. “ _When_ I return, it will be as a king. And you will be my queen. The Queen Under the Mountain.”

“You don’t really think I care about that, do you?” 

She looks at him steadily, but there is a tightness at the corners of her mouth, something resigned and terrible in her eyes, and it makes Thorin’s chest ache.

“I know you don’t. You never have.”

“But I know you care about it. And I understand why.” She smiles, looking somehow proud and sad at the same time. “Erebor is your home. And its fortune is your birthright.”

Thorin reaches out and tucks one of her braids behind her ear. He must remember this, he tells himself. The feeling of her hair falling over his hands; her skin against his fingertips. The sound of her laughter and the endless compassion in her eyes. He must remember, for it is this, he knows, that will give him the strength to take back the mountain.

“You are my home,” he says simply, and she reaches up and pulls him down into a kiss. 

Moments pass. Geraldine is the one who pulls away first. 

“Aulë watch over you,” she says. 

Thorin takes one last, long look at her, then turns and walks away. 

His hand is on the doorknob when she speaks again.

“Oh, and Thorin?” she adds. “One more thing.”

He doesn’t look back but he can hear the smile in her voice. 

“Kick Smaug’s arse, okay?”

Thorin didn’t think it was possible, but he falls in love with her just a little bit more.

“As my lady commands it,” he replies, pushing the door open, and sets out for his quest with a smile on his face.

**VI.**

“It’s rather… grand.” 

Geraldine wanders around the enormous royal suites of Erebor, head tilted back and staring up at a ceiling dotted with thousands of gems. They glitter like coloured stars in the firelight.

“Is that a polite way of saying it’s ostentatious?” Thorin asks, biting back the urge to laugh.

She looks over at him and grins.

“No, it’s a polite way of saying it’s vulgar.”

Thorin makes his way over to her. He’s still limping badly but she meets him halfway, one arm curling around his waist and partially supporting his weight. He doesn’t protest, despite her being so much smaller than he is. He’d tried that when she first arrived and had gotten a glare so intense it made even Kíli’s mouth snap shut.

“I’m a king now; you can’t speak of my chambers in that manner.”

“Yes, and I’m a queen, and you can bet that I’ll be redecorating as soon as I’ve helped everyone else settle in here.”

Geraldine is a warm against his side and Thorin pulls her closer. How he’d missed this, all those long months in the wild without her. The sound of her voice, the smell of her hair. The strength of her convictions.

He leads her through halls that go deeper into the mountain, past ancient columns of stone that his ancestors helped carve as they built a kingdom from deep within the earth. He stops when he finds a particular door, marked out only by a simple engraving of runes that spell out his mother’s name.

“Are you saying you don’t care for jewels?” Thorin asks, and opens the door.

There are no piles of gold here, no hoard that a dragon would spend centuries guarding. Just an undecorated plinth and a large wooden case on top of it, its lid flipped open. 

Lying atop a pillow of deep purple velvet are the Queen’s jewels—an assortment of rings and beard-ornaments, necklaces and earrings; some elaborate, some simple and plain. And at the centre of it all, there lies a crown, deep yellow gold and tipped with rubies and diamonds that seem to glow with a light all their own.

Thorin picks it up and places it carefully on Geraldine’s head. 

“It fits you perfectly,” he says quietly. “As I knew it would.”

He leans down and kisses her, and she kisses him back, her lips so soft and her hands impossibly gentle as they skim his still-bandaged wounds. But it’s not long before she leans back and steps away again.

“Geraldine?” he asks, a little dazed. 

“I’d really love to continue,” she says, then points to the crown. “But this is really quite heavy and it’s giving me a headache. Here, help me get it off?” 

Their quiet laughter echoes against the stone walls as he lifts it away and puts it back into the case.

“I forgot to tell you,” Thorin adds, as they make their way back to the main chambers.

“Hmm?”

“Bilbo’s kin sent a tribute to us.”

Geraldine looks up at him with interest.

“What sort of tribute would hobbits send, I wonder?”

Thorin chuckles.

“What else? Food.”

“Edible gifts are always a smart option,” Geraldine says approvingly, as they re-enter the bedroom.

“There’s something in particular that Bilbo said you might enjoy. I’ve never heard of it before, but apparently it’s quite popular in the Shire.”

Thorin goes the table at the foot of the bed, where he’d placed the basket of things that Bilbo had sent them personally. He picks up a small bar of something wrapped in undyed muslin.

“What’s that?” Geraldine asks.

Thorin shrugs.

“I believe they call it chocolate.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Kinkmeme.


End file.
